Corrag

by Susan Fletcher

  Rebels. Traitors.

  That gallows herd…

  SUCH hatred in the world. Such sadness.

  My mother always said there is no Devil. Only the devilish ways, in a man. And she walked in landscapes of wind, and height, and grass for these places could not hurt her—not like people could.

  DO NOT love. For hate is never far from it.

  Like light, it needs the other—the dark—to be called light at all.

  My darling

  She says there are moments which change us. There are. I changed when I came to Inverary, and the red-haired inn-keeper mentioned witch to me. I changed when I sat on a stool and worried for lice. I changed with the blacksmith. With each page of the Bible, for the Lord gives us His lessons every day. Yes.

  Or aye. They say aye here.

  I have been downstairs. It is an inn and I am not a drinking man, but there was a chair by a fire. And I was changed on the day I saw you, my love. You were bending down to lift a snail from the path, and you put your parasol down to do it, and I saw all your hair, and your tiny waist as you rose, and I promise you this, Jane—that with all this talk of oaths, and love, and the heart’s voice, I know what I felt, as you rose. I envied the snail. I thanked God. Every oath I have ever made to you, or for you, was done with my whole body and heart. Soul.

  The whisky is sharp, but I had it. It was golden light in a glass—and did I ever write the word Gormshuil, for you? She is a woman that Corrag knew. She sounds as wretched a creature as it is possible to be—bones and dirt, and no Godliness in her. She took some plant for comfort, and I understand that now. We all have our woes, and sorrows. It does not solve them—a plant, a drink—but it clouds the mind, and I will sleep my first sleep in nights, I think.

  The landlord saw me drinking. He hung about me, and I knew why—and surely, it came.

  How is the witch? The vile slattern? The hag?

  I was minded to not answer at all but he would have pestered—some folk are like foxes who tread about another, sniffing for meat. Fearing her death I told him. I said, she will soon be burnt to death, sir. She is not, therefore, too well…

  Ha! For she knows the Devil will take her soul—that she will burn for a while on that stake, but she will burn ever after for her crimes…

  So I drank, for it filled my mouth. I had no good words to fill it with.

  Tomorrow, she will speak of the soldiers coming in. I know it, now. The blacksmith tells me their captain was a black-eyed, straw-haired man. There were English among them, and Campbells, and mere boys who had no place in such a dire deed. A massacre, Jane! They came in for it. They stayed for two weeks before firing their muskets and pulling their dirks through throats to punish them for this late oath, and I will pray for their souls that they did not know their orders as they sat by the MacDonald fires, drinking MacDonald whisky, eating MacDonald bread.

  She will speak of this—and I fear it! I do! I, who have seen men hang and have hastened, even, the deaths of guilty men, am fearful of what she will speak of. And I am fearful of seeing her cell with no Corrag in it—just the straw that, once, she lay on.

  What a death she will die. She does not deserve that death.

  And what a life she has lived. I wonder if I envy it, in part. When have we picked berries from their bushes, and eaten them? Not since I was a boy. And have we ever drunk on our knees, like a cat? It is the whisky writing this. But she has fed a stag from her bare hand, Jane—a rotted apple, but the stag bit down, and took it, and when she spoke of this my heart said yes! And envied it. I have never stood in marshes, or heard an owl call out.

  All this from her. All these dreams and longings, and fears, and thoughts, and hopes—from her.

  Maybe witch was always the right word.

  Am I mad? It is the whisky. Your husband unravels, Mrs Leslie.

  I will retire to bed with your letter in my hand. I have my faith in God, but His face has changed itself over the past days and nights. Who is He? He is not what I thought. Or He has not changed, but my own eyes have? Me?

  I tell myself the law is the law. And then I pass the barrels which are tied, and waiting for Corrag, and my heart says do not die. Keep living. Little thing.

  Charles.

  X

  “Have a care you mistake not the deadly Nightshade for this; if you know it not, you may let them both alone, and take no harm.”

  of Nightshade

  There is less blue light—much less blue. For the first time I have seen it—how the cell’s daytime light is paler, thinner, and I know that the last snow is gone now, or nearly gone. Melted. I reckon there are the small green shoots, the buds like fingertips and an earthy smell—rich, and cool. And hear that? Not a drip, drip. It is a faster sound now. The snowmelt runs.

  I know this running sound. I have heard it before in other, lost places, and in those places I knew that it meant my season was closing down for a time, and the spring was flooding into the land—with its filled burns and flowers. Boggy ground softened. Rocks felt warm. And I liked these things—these changes, which spoke of warmth and blue-sky days. But this rushing water and paler light means more than that. A different warmth. Not blue skies, but black ones—filled with the smoke of burning me. Fiery me. Me blazing like homes did.

  I used to feel a little sadness, at seeing my weather go—at winter curling up, like furry creatures do when they know that winter comes. The season pressed its snout to its belly, slept, and I’d think then goodbye, for a time. I have knelt in marshes and thought, till next year—for winter always comes back, does it not? Like all seasons? In comes the frost. Then the ice. Then the snow.

  I say goodbye to it now. But properly. For I won’t see another.

  When it comes back, will you see it for me? Will you breathe against a wall of ice, and watch how your breath steams back for me? Crunch out on snow? Sit by fires?

  Look how pink your cheeks are. How wet your shoes are.

  It has been a long winter, I know. In the glen, it was long. It was thick frosts which creaked underfoot, and the crump of snow as it fell from my roof. I’d stretch in the mornings, breathe that air.

  And the soldiers came in this weather. On a February day they came in their bright-red coats with their polished muskets and cold cheeks. Knocked on the Chief’s front door.

  WHAT was on my mind that day? I think nothing was. Or maybe it was the small things I’d been looking at—my clouded breath, and a cobweb with droplets on. I know a thin snow was blowing, pricking my face, and my hands were very pink so I turned them over, looking at their pinkness. I was neither happy nor sad. I was just as I was. Sitting on Keep-Me-Safe.

  Then, I looked up. In the distance, I saw a line of red. It moved along the shores of the loch, past Ballachulish, and on. I squinted, and thought what is so red? And moves like that?

  And I knew it was redcoats.

  Soldiers.

  How did you know it was soldiers which would murder us? Who has told you? Or maybe the whole world knows, now—that it was soldiers who came to the Glen of Coe. With muskets. With smiles.

  It changed the glen, of course. All those tall, redcoated men with their Lowland voices and snowy boots which they stamped, in doorways, and with their jokes which I did not hear, but I heard the laughter from them. I was not there to truly see it—how the MacIain greeted them. I was minded to think he’d have roared his dislike and banished them, for he hated all things which had William in it, or by it, and these were William’s men. I thought he might draw out a sword or two. But he did not roar. He saw the falling snow. He saw their cold faces, heard their bellies growl.

  He welcomed them, Iain said, when I saw him three days afterwards. Gave them meat. Lodgings.

  He welcomed them?

  Aye. What else might he do? ’Tis foul weather, Corrag, and they need quartering.

  But they’re William’s men…I did not understand.

  And Iain sighed, like he often did with me. Like he had no patience for this dul
l-witted English creature he said did we not sign the oath? To William? We’re no outward threat to him or his men, now—nor are they to us. And it is the Highland way—to offer shelter when asked for it. His garron shifted beneath him. Did we not offer it to you? All those months gone?

  They had. I nodded.

  Then you cannot protest.

  I turned from him, and went, and I remembered his words. Outward threats. Oaths. I knew that Iain’s reasoning was proper. There is no danger I told myself, treading over the ice. And they were smartly done, I saw that. They had their crimson coats and their shiny boots and some had curled, snow-topped wigs. They clanked with their metal. They blew on their hands as they stood in the glen, looking up at the mountains.

  There is no danger. All is well.

  But still I was not truly calm. Still, there were so many changes in the glen, so many shifts in its air and light, that how could I like it? This coming of men? What, I wondered, of the rocks? What of the tiny, animal lives? It troubled me deeply, despite Iain’s words. With my uneasy sea inside me, slapping itself against my sides, I eyed the soldiers. Holding my breath, I crept like a cat through the snowy parts. I slunk my way to Achtriochtan, and saw a soldier by its loch, making it his privy, and I did not like that. On my dark daytime walks, I saw heavy-booted footprints in the snow by Achnacon where cowslip grew in spring, and would this mean no cowslips? When the spring came in? I chewed upon my bottom lip. I did not see my stag for a week—more than a week.

  I worried.

  I worried for the glen. I worried for the rocks and water. I worried for the air, and grass, and deer, and that the families would give all their salted meat and smoked fish and turnips to these men, and so starve themselves much later. I worried the way the soldiers called from house to house, through cupped hands, would make a shelf of snow break from the ridge, and thunder down, and claim a human life or two. I worried they would stay, and never leave.

  AND I had old dreams, of course. I knew what redcoats were. I thought I had left them behind in the Lowlands, on a summer’s night when my mare was still living and my skirt had caught on a bramble, bent, and then freed itself—so they’d looked up from their fire, and…I had left it behind. I had not dwelt on it, for why dwell on past troubles? I had survived it all. But now there were redcoated men in the valley below, and I was sore with remembering the weight on me, the hush now. The pop.

  I kept to my hut. Missed my mare.

  Not all redcoated men are villains, Mr Leslie. I knew it then, and I still know it. But didn’t Mother Mundy hate all reivers, for always, once her body had been entered on a fiery, autumn night? Not all reivers did what that one had done—but she hated them all anyway. By my hearth, I thought of her. I remembered her face like it was before me—lined, blistered, hairy, sad-eyed. I wondered how she was, and reckoned she was dead, now—her rape and gummy mouth boxed in the earth, and gone.

  Such thoughts made me kick stones, and feel lonesome.

  Not all soldiers are cruel, Mr Leslie. Most are not.

  But I did not like them being in the glen from the start, and that was that.

  I stayed in my valley, mostly. I would not take myself out of there, by day—fearing the past, and the future, and all in between. Fearing my own self, maybe—for I would look upon my body in my bathing pool and be troubled by its smallness, its muscle, and scars. I saw my own frailty—like the web that a spider makes in corners, I was strong in some places but gossamer-thin, and gossamer-white, and strange. Amongst the clinking ice, I stared. I thought Cora made this. I come from her—and this softened my worries, at times. She had been such a wild, fighting piece. She was in me, and near me, and as the river fell down like glass into the pool, and roared about my ears, I thought I heard her voice. Be strong. Wise.

  Love the world, Corrag. Concern yourself with trees. Hills.

  I shall.

  Good girl. My ghost-baby.

  I tried. I made a dish from my hands beneath the waterfall, and drank. I brushed my goats, and spoke to my hens. And, once, I stood at the end of my valley, where a thinner fall of water had frozen blue, and its coldness made my breath steam back at me as I blew upon it, and I remembered my poor mare’s tail which was torn, by that soldier. Whisky, and a redcoat, and she had galloped with me as I’d cried go! Go!

  I could feel the ice’s coldness on my face.

  I closed my eyes, breathed. To the waterfall I whispered, bring Alasdair to me? His face? And words?

  The world hears these little prayers.

  So in time, he came.

  HE CAME as I trod down the sides of Cat Peak, towards my hut, dragging a branch for the fire. I did not see him. I imagined him, instead. I paused, looked down at my hut and imagined how he’d look if he was standing by it—red-haired and rough-skinned, with his wet-wool smell. He might be waiting for me. He might look up…I scolded myself, and walked on. He is not there—only a chicken was, and the hazel tree with its branches of snow, and the dimpled snow beneath it where some had fallen from a branch when a small breeze had come.

  But when I reached the hut, he was there. The real him, the breathing one.

  You’ve kept away, he said.

  And I saw his half-smile. Smelt the wet-wool.

  WE SAT inside, where the fire was strong, and he took a cup of water which was hot with herbs in it. I thought he looked tired—as if the bairn was taking sleep from him, or he had his own worries. His hair was long, now—thick, and loose upon his neck. The long winter had darkened it, so it was a deep earth-red. Nearly peat-coloured. His beard was also dark.

  Why are they here? I asked.

  They say that the garrison is full, at Inverlochy. They’ve asked for quarters and food, for a time.

  How long?

  As long as this weather lasts. Who knows how long?

  Do you have enough food for that?

  We will make do. We have herring, still. Salted beef. He looked down at his cup. We have four soldiers with us, in our home.

  Four?

  There are some at each house—from our cousin in Brecklet to the eastern end. He smiled. Some are just boys…The weather makes them wheezy. Their sleeves are too long for them, so Sarah has sewed…

  He saw me, watching.

  You fear them?

  I blushed. I looked down at the fire, unsure of my words. When I spoke, my voice was barely a voice at all. Yes. There are so many. There have never been so many people in the glen before, I reckon…Stamping all over it.

  You fear them for what they’ll do to the glen? The plants?

  Yes.

  He shook his head. The glen has seen worse than some soldiers come by. It’s had battles and famine. Rain upon rain. He eyed me. You think they’ll hurt you?

  Inside me, I flinched. Maybe he saw this.

  I spoke to Iain. He said you were fretful. Gently, he said why?

  They are soldiers.

  But they have come peacefully. They are civil-mannered, as are we.

  They are the King’s men. That word…

  He shook his head briskly, said is this the same girl? The one who trusts the world so much? Who talks of heart and faith as much as she does? I thought I was the one who was hasty to judge.

  But—

  Alasdair said, Sassenach. I know. I know what life you’ve had. I know that you’ve run from trouble, and that this trouble has mostly come from men, but these are soldiers…We have sworn allegiance to the King they serve. Why would they harm us? Why now? Are we not on their side? He blew out a hard breath, looked into his cup. If we had refused to give them shelter, what then? Our oath would have been forfeited, and we’d have felt the Dutchman’s wrath for it. Or they’d have pulled out their swords, forced it upon us… He drank.

  I know.

  It will help you, he said, to know that they are Sarah’s kin.

  Sarah’s?

  Aye. The man who leads these soldiers? He is a Campbell. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon—and Sarah’s cousin by blood. Alasdair
shrugged. I’ll admit he’s a drinker, and plays cards too much and too badly—but he is still kin. Still a decent man—or as much as a Campbell can be. Why might he harm us? Her?

  I looked down.

  In a softer voice he said, when did you stop trusting? I thought that was your way?

  It is my way! It is. But I have met soldiers before.

  He paused. For a while there was no sound but the fire, hissing. In a darker, slower voice he said, And they hurt you?

  I thought to say yes, they did. I thought to tell him that it had been a redcoat who had grappled me, and tried to take me against my will, and who had manhandled my mare whom I’d loved, and he’d put a blade to my throat, and how much I had cried afterwards—and how fearful I was of it happening again. I wanted no claiming. I wanted no stranger’s weight on me. I wanted none of that—no man’s touch, or not from them, and not that way, and I felt my eyes feel hot and wet as I thought of this. But also, I thought of Sarah. I saw how tired her husband looked, and how much worry was in him, and I did not say it. What right had I? To say it? I kept the secret to myself. No. They did not hurt me.

  Alasdair leant forwards to me. I am with you in this. I do not like them being here—eating our meat, and burning our fuel. But we have no choice. And my father prides himself on being a host, and a fine one too…Perhaps we’ll be rewarded for our kindness, in time? He winked, touched my hand. They’ll be gone with the first thaw, I promise.

  He left, a little later. The hazel tree was heavy with the snowfall, and it creaked, and all night I listened to it—creaking, in the dark.